“Is good, Senhor?” Rheumy eyes crinkle in a face like a Roman mosaic.
“Yes, very good,” I cough into a napkin. “Just… surprised me, that’s all.”
The crinkles deepen. “Americano?”
For a moment, my mind blanks out…
Who the hell am I supposed to be?
… then the information surfaces. “No. English.”
“Ahhh…” The brows rise, then, “Senhor, Você quer nosso vinho local?” He stares into air for a second. “Our wine locale… You try?”
“Yes, please.” I cough again into the napkin, clearing a final fiery fragment from my throat. “Your local wine would be good.”
He offers up a bottle: the contents pale, a plain white label and a heavy-duty waxed cork. “Is of the … wine garden…” He gives me a questioning look…
“Vinyard.”
“… The vinyard of my brother. Is good. You want? Yes, no?”
“Yes. Yes.”
The
